Casa Hogar – The Language of Love

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Casa Hogar, Cañon Buena Vista, El Zorillo, BC Mexico

I’ve been to Casa Hogar three times now and each time, I wrestle. I wrestle because I have a savior complex and I just want to rescue them. I want to bring one of the kids home, to give her family, to tuck him into bed at night, to love him.

But wait—is that what they really need? Is that what’s best?

            I wrestle because I want to bring tools and fix their pump and their toilets and their doors. I want to plant grass on their soccer field and fix their basketball hoop.

But wait—is that what they really need? Is that what’s best?

            I wrestle because I want to bring money and take them shopping and let them pick out clothes and toys.

But wait—is that what they really need? Is that what’s best?

            I wrestle because it would be so easy to just fix everything—to give them hot water and new clothes, bikes and books. Or to just bring them home. But wait….

I remember a time when Jesus fixed some things: healed some diseases, made some blind people see. Then he got away for some Dad time, time with his Father-God. And when some people came looking for him, looking for more fixes, he walked away… said he had to go preach somewhere else.

Another time a rich kid came to Jesus wanting to feel good about his future. Jesus told him to sell everything—all his stuff—and give it to the poor. The kid walked away, sad. I guess he had too much stuff to sell. Jesus watched him go. Just watched him. I bet Jesus was sad, too.

Walk away. Wow. Is that the answer? Maybe it is. Maybe the best thing we can do is to walk away—not from the people; not from Casa Hogar; but from stuff, and from fixing stuff, and buying stuff. Maybe we need to walk away from the idea that they need stuff and we have stuff se we should give them stuff. ‘cause, hey—when the stuff breaks….

Jesus met someone else once looking for water. He offered her living water, and that sounded so much better then the well water she was used to. (Living water, she thought, meant a fresh spring.) but he didn’t give her a new pump or even show her where there was a new spring. No, he gave himself. And her thirst—for friendship, for worship, for God—was quenched. He spoke her language…and changed her language.

Maybe…just maybe…what the kids at Casa Hogar need is living water. Maybe they need the warmth of our love more than hot water. Maybe they need our presence more than our presents. Maybe the best way we can love them is to learn their language.

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